


rings up to the moon

by ohtempora



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Gen, Home Run Derby, Los Angeles Dodgers, M/M, New York Yankees, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 03:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13942050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtempora/pseuds/ohtempora
Summary: "Whoa," Cody says. "Didn't know you were one too."Judge—Aaron, he'd just said—raises an eyebrow. "Sorry?""A witch," Cody says, twiddling his fingers around, the near-universal sign for spooky shit.





	rings up to the moon

**Author's Note:**

> I've been talking a lot about baseball witches, so - here are some baseball witches!

Cody knows he doesn't have a hope in hell of winning the Home Run Derby when he's competing against Judge and Stanton and a whole bunch of other guys who hit the ball hard. It doesn't matter, in the end: He puts up a respectable showing, gets to hang out with his dad like they're practicing together in the backyard again, and then he gets to sit back and watch Judge hit absolute bombs.

They meet up at one of the parties after, and Cody's pretty sure he's introduced himself before but he does it again, shaking Judge's hand, totally chill—

"Whoa," Cody says. "Didn't know you were one too."

Judge—Aaron, he'd just said—raises an eyebrow. "Sorry?"

"A witch," Cody says, twiddling his fingers around, the near-universal sign for spooky shit. "Actually, not surprised, dude. I should have figured." 

The tension in Aaron's shoulders eases. "Oh, yeah?" he says. "You wanna grab a drink?"

Cody does, in fact, want to do that. Even if Aaron didn’t have magic, he’d want to do it anyway.

They head over to the bar, grab beers and watch everyone mill around. There's a shit-ton of ballplayers hanging out, and MLB executives, and all their families and friends, and Joel Embiid's somewhere too. He told Cody he was a beast. You don't get parties like this in the minors. 

"So," Aaron says. His voice is neutral, but when Cody slides a glance at him, he's grinning. "You got me fast, man. I've been doing my best to shield and everything too."

"I can pick up on that pretty easy," Cody offers. He squints and looks out at the other attendees. If he focuses, he can see the little charms and spells everyone carries with them, can pick out the other magic users if he focuses harder. Kersh is quick to spot, as always; it's easy to find his own magic in the crowd. Blackmon's got spells woven into his beard. Posey has orange rust all over him—the spells have to be a few years old by now, and whoever cast health and luck on him originally never renewed it. Arenado is glowing. Cody’s pretty sure he was the one who cast on Blackmon. Stanton has healing charms crawling under his skin. Some MLB exec near the door is brimming with magic and can barely control it, or doesn’t even know she’s got it. 

"Neat skill," Aaron says. 

"I think so." Cody looks back at him, squints. "You the only guy on your team?" He twiddles his fingers again. "We've got a few." And more in the front office, though he's never talked to any of them about it.

"Nah, not only me. I like it that way. Too much responsibility to be the only one. Plus, being in New York and all—" Aaron shrugs. "Look at what happened to the Mets."

"Jury's out on if that's an actual injury curse or not," Cody says. "We were taking bets in the clubhouse, me and the other guys."

"I'd tell you if I knew," Aaron says, smiling again. "Or if you want, I can tell you whatever it takes to win your bet."

Cody laughs. "I don't know if there's that much at stake," he says. "Either way the Mets don't like us."

"2015, right." Aaron nods. "Anyway, I can show you what I got, if you want."

Cody's intrigued enough that he nods. Maybe it isn't the smartest idea, spellcasting at an MLB party, but what the hell. They don't play the AL East this year. Might be his only shot. 

"So who else on the team has it?" he asks. "One of your pitchers? Not your catcher, I would have seen that one when he walked by earlier."

"Me and Birdy right now," Aaron says. "Another couple guys in the minors who I've met at spring training. The org likes having us around. The Core Four, they all had something, everyone said."

"Bird's like you?" Cody asks.

"Nah. He's got—" Aaron shrugs, waves his hands around in the air. "You know, he does his own thing. Takes a lot out of him, he's had bad luck with the injuries—hopefully it works out. Give me your hand."

Cody does. Aaron's palm is dry and cool and very large. 

He's always wondered about the rumors that the Yankees kept a guy on staff who could chat with the dead. Summon the stadium ghosts. Channeling that energy sucks up all of your own. His dad wasn't with them long enough to confirm it, and BMac refused to say.

"Okay," Aaron says, and squeezes his hand, and Cody shudders: It feels like someone cracked an egg over his head, but it isn't slimy, it's cool and refreshing and his vision narrows, everything is bright and clear and sharp and he can see clearer than before, he can feel the pitch pulling towards him, he knows--

"Hitters' magic," Aaron says. He drops Cody's hand and the world widens again. "They said that's what Yogi Berra used to call it from behind the plate."

Cody says, "Dang."

"I can't use it all the time," Aaron says. "But yeah."

They get another beer, nod at a couple other people. One of Aaron's teammates comes by to say hello, and they chat for a bit. He's got no magic in him, when Cody checks. 

When they're alone again Aaron says, "Tell me about yours."

Fair's fair. Cody sips at his beer and sets it aside. 

"I can see spells," he says. 'How effective they are. Not only mine, anything from any caster. Kersh, you know, he's covered in anti-jinxes, and we're all worried about what happens if one of them stops working. I can see magic in people and magic on people too. Like, all of it. That makes it easy to work out counterspells. I did one on Kersh last month, when we were on the road."

Aaron nods. 

"I can look at you," Cody offers. "If you wanna know what yours looks like."

"Sure," Aaron says. "Do you need my hand, or--"

"That works," Cody says, even though he doesn't really, not anymore. He takes Aaron's hand and it's-- 

Aaron's magic is a lake, perfectly clear and almost entirely still, small even ripples dancing around the surface. There's a light breeze and Cody reaches further, feels the hopes of a city and the best wishes of millions of people tied up in history and expectation, good and heavy and whole. Sometimes magic isn't just the spells you cast on your own.

Grey flickers around the edges, pallid and sickly but it’s not—it could be worse, because the ghosts don't mind helping, they don't mind chatting with the living, so many of them died with baseball in their brains and pinstripes in their souls.

He pulls back. "Tell your necromancer he's getting ghost ooze everywhere."

"Birdy's just a weird dude," Aaron protests, then laughs at the slip-up. "Yeah, yeah. He's getting better. It seems like it’s a hard one to learn."

"I won't tell anyone," Cody says, because he  _ won’t _ . Bird's magic doesn't feel wrong to him, even covered with the grey cloud of the dead. 

"Thanks."

"It was awesome watching you," Cody says. Seems like it’s time to switch topics. "I'm gonna get it from the guys when I'm back in LA—kind of lost my shit on TV there."

"Thanks," Aaron says again, and he sounds pleased now. "Everyone thought I was gonna do it—probably need to thank Sanchy for taking out Stanton for me—but I didn't know until I actually did. If that makes sense."

"It does." Cody elbows him. "Hey, you took me out too, and I had fun watching it. It was like, wow."

"Doesn't feel real," Aaron says. "Growing up, you just want to play."

Cody knows what he means. Not the crowds or the fans or the expectations, but everything else that comes with pro ball. Aaron played college, where a misuse of magic gets you vacated wins and your championship banners coming down. 

Everything in the MLB is bigger.

"I like your magic," he says. He thinks he’s blushing as he says it, because this is going to sound dumb, but it's too late to stp now. "It feels nice. So much of it doesn't, it's mean, or it's straight up a jinx, or feels gross and itchy, you know? Yours feels good." Cody swallows. He’s gotta be bright red. "I swear I'm not high right now."

"No, no," Aaron says. His cheeks are pink too, when Cody looks. "It's not weird. You see a ton of magic, right?"

"All the fuckin' time."

"So that means you're telling the truth." Aaron reaches out, fingers brushing lightly over his elbow. "Even if I'm covered in ghost ooze."

"Yeah, well," Cody says. "We can't all be perfect."

Aaron is still touching him, and Cody relaxes into it, feels himself lean in. Thinks about what it must be like to have all that focus. Hitter’s magic, the batter's eye.

"You got any plans for after this?" he asks. "Unless you're planning to hang here all night." It's not a bad party, as official events go, but he's sure there are more exciting things to do as the night goes on.

"We're in Miami, man," Aaron says. "I could go out."

"I'll buy you a drink if you let me ask you a bunch of really dumb questions about your magic," Cody says. 

Aaron squeezes his elbow. "I'd let you do that anyway," he says. "But yeah, let's do it. Sounds like a plan."

**Author's Note:**

> somewhere offscreen mike trout is being a weather witch, rooting for the eagles and communing with the thunderstorms.


End file.
